Empty Shards
by Metallic Mist
Summary: To a person looking at Vivek from the outside, he would seem like an ordinary guy, chilling out on a Sunday morning. But on the inside only he knew what he was feeling. Empty, yes. But also incomplete. - 'He shakes the jar, maybe for fun, and it makes a flat sound. Much like jingling, but without the happiness and the mirth. Just like his life.'


**|| Empty Shards ||**

In the fickle light of one candle, he clumsily pours the whiskey into his glass, filling it to the brim. He knocks it back, spilling most of it on his chin and chest, not that he cares. Heat swarms his mouth, down his throat and then in his stomach. He has never particularly liked the taste of the drink, but he likes the heat and the slight fuzziness in his head. He likes the way it tingles in his body, but above anything at all, he likes that it numbs him. It distracts him. And distraction is necessary.

Necessary to prevent him from smashing all the eggs on her wall, from ripping open his pillows, to keep him from slaughtering all the next door farmer's cows. But mostly to keep him from barging into that hellhole and smashing that little goat's head against the wall.

He bangs the glass on the table and it shakes beneath his fury. With unsteady hands, he pours himself another glass. As the amber liquid fills the glass, he quickly gulps it and then shakes his head. Her kitchen is large, but sparsely furnished, consisting of only one weak wooden table and a chair. There would have been two chairs if it wasn't for that goat, he thinks, but lets it go, for his glass of whiskey becomes much more important. He stars to pour himself another glass when the phone rings.

_I'm at a payphone…_

_Trying to call home…_

He decides it's a good idea to dance, to his ringtone, so he puts his hands up and starts to sing.

"_All of my change I spent on you. Where have the times gone baby it's all wrong. Where are the plans we made for two?" _ he crosses his legs and starts walking back and forth, then picks up his bottle and keeps it on his head. "Daru le lo!" he yells and keeps walking forward until he bangs into the wall. By this time, his phone has stopped ringing. He throws the bottle away, and it crashes in the corner into shards.

He stumbles suddenly, over air he believes, but realizes that it's better to stay on the ground. He knows his head will pound like crap in the morning, but he doesn't care. He'll cross the bridge when he comes to it.

* * *

It is only a flash of light to begin with, a small shaft of light piercing his eyes between the erratic flutters of his lids. It is bright and intense like the first blast of sunlight after a little too much of vodka and an uncomfortable nap. He can't feel a thing, for his body feels hollow and suspended and for a minute he thinks he is dead. But at that moment, his head begins to throb, loud and unforgiving and the pain pulsates behind his eyelids, as if pain could roar.

He tries to breathe but his lungs feel below his knees and his Adam's apple is like brick, blocking his throat. He can't even groan or cry out loud, and the instinct to do _something_ to react to the hurricane in his head is so formidable that he thinks it would drive him insane if he leaves it too long. Suddenly something gives, and his throat feels loose again. There is a ticklish dryness in his throat, and he longs for someone to pick him up.

His cellphone rings suddenly, the same tune she had dared him to put on ringtone, and suddenly all the events of last night come back to him. The phone continues to ring, and the loud tone makes the pain in his head even more unbearable. He groans, but it comes out wrong, and sounds like a strangled cat. He laughs at the comparison suddenly, as he props himself up on his elbows and tries to have a better look around. The place is certainly no better than how she had left it and save for the shattered bottle in the corner of the kitchen, he can tell that he hasn't made a _very_ big mess.

He stands up shakily, and by now the headache, if possible, has intensified, and he desperately looks around for something. Anything, for her house suddenly feels empty. Not literally. But there is something that is missing. It's _her. _Her smile, her laughter, her scent, her _everything, _and if he is honest, that is exactly what he'd come here for. To feel her presence even after she'd been gone.

He stumbles out of the kitchen, and the floor feels ice cold under his feet. He lets out a mirthless laugh, because he knows that the floor isn't nearly as cold as how his heart feels. He blunders into the room, her room, and desperately looks around for something for his headache. At this point even water would be more than enough, but he _needs_ something. He trips into the bathroom and opens all drawers until he finds what he needs.

It a glass jar with a fancy purple lid that stores about a hundred white capsules. He shakes the jar, maybe for fun, and it makes a flat sound. Much like jingling, but without the happiness and the mirth. _Just like his life. _The thought makes him sad, and so he fishes her cabinets for something more cheerful.

He finds her anklets in another drawer, so he opens the jar and puts them inside, before pulling out one tablet and closing the jar. He shakes his jar on the way outside, and this time, it sounds much more cheerful. Just that makes him smile despite the circumstances.

He drops onto the couch, silently thanking her for having good cushions, while blankly staring at the black T.V. screen. Her memories keep coming back to him and playing in front of his eyes, when his gaze roams around the room, looking for something cheerful, for his thoughts to feed on. He starts to shake the box again and as he takes a shaky breath again, and its merry sound fill the silent hall.

Screw anyone who thinks people cry for ages when they lose someone. Screw anyone who expects him to become a waterworks, who expects him to wear his scars on display for everyone to see.

Because he doesn't cry.

He doesn't know if it is because he promised her he wouldn't or because he just doesn't cry. But he doesn't. Doesn't even feel the need to. He just feels hollow. He feels empty. Like there's a part of him that's been taken out and not put back again. He feels _nothing. _But maybe that's because he knows that she is still there with him. Every night, to sing him to sleep. And that she will be there in his dreams. That her smile will haunt him, and that her eyes will keep speaking to him even if she won't anymore. Maybe this was how people missed someone.

He keeps looking around the room until his eyes lands on a picture of her and him. She clad in a green sundress, and he in a white t-shirt and khaki shorts. Her smile is as bright as the august sun, when she looks at him and he doesn't remember ever being so happy. He lets the jar tumble out of his hands onto the couch as he grabs a nearby pen and notebook and begins to write.

_I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go. when all those shadows almost killed your light. I remember you said 'don't leave me alone.', and yet today I'm the one left alone._ He sighs and puts the letter pad back down and picks up the jingling jar before walking back into the kitchen.

Picking up a glass from the shelf, he walks over to the sink and fills the glass. Drinking it quickly, he fills the glass again and again, desperately trying to fill in the emptiness inside him, until he can drink no more. He slams the glass onto the counter as he pants, and his hand reaches his chest.

He leans on the counter for a few minutes until he is ready to walk out on his own. He ventures out of the kitchen and into the balcony, and the sunlight hits his eyes like a piercing shrapnel. His hand reaches out in front of his eyes on instinct, and he blinks to adjust to the sunlight. The grips the railings with both his hands, and heaves a breath. To him this would have been much better with Tasha beside him.

To a person looking at Vivek from the outside, he would seem like an ordinary guy chilling out on a Sunday morning. But on the inside only he knew what he was feeling. Empty, yes. But also incomplete. All because he never got to tell her that _he loved her_.

_**~THE END~**_

A/n: This is dedicated to Poesia-Raro. And I don't think a lot of people will understand what I really mean, but if you do, then you read through not only my story but my soul. There are song references to _Payphone _by_ Maroon 5_ and '_Safe And Sound' _by_ Taylor Swift._


End file.
